


Safe

by JohnQKole



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Reconciliation, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23454823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnQKole/pseuds/JohnQKole
Summary: The Priest calls during quarantine when they're prohibited from meeting. But quarantine won't last forever.
Relationships: Fleabag & Priest (Fleabag), Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 77
Kudos: 388





	1. Chapter 1

**_A/N—I've been back and forth between a story that starts at the end of S02E01 (but do I even want a fic where most of season 2 never happened?!?) or this one and apparently, ugh...yes, I'm posting a quarantine fic. I was fighting it since everyone will probably write these, but a few of the scenes popped through in my head so clearly that I felt like I had to. So here it is. Hope it's not redundant._ **

**_This follows with canon and is unrelated to my other Fleabag story. Probably 3 chaps to this one._ **

* * *

_I am so horribly, intensely bored right now._

I look around my room at two sets of blinking lights from vibrators plugged in and recharging in my room. My computer is on the bed next to me, streaming some show I'd probably enjoy, if I weren't too bored to pay attention. 

_I mean I get it. I really do. There are people out there suffering, sick, caring for the sick. There are medical professionals working tirelessly, grocery employees putting themselves at risk, cleaning staff making the world safer, and delivery workers working overtime. All I'm being called upon to do is stay home. And at first it sounded nice. But I'm so very, very bored right now. Can you imagine the fun I would have had had Boo and I been quarantined together?_

At first I was permitted to keep the café open, but just before restrictions tightened, I happened to get a visit from an old friend, who offered to act as an investor as long as I agreed to shut down, stay home, and stay safe. 

_No...it wasn't him. Don't even think about that._

Belinda stopped by, telling me, "I don't care much for the thought of a world without you in it somewhere. Go home. Stay safe. When this is all over, get back out there and get to work."

"Want to come share a quarantine with me?" I asked.

For a split second, I thought she might agree, but she said, "I imagine that would be an entertaining way to spend a few weeks," but she walked toward the door. On her way out, she paused and said, "Call me tomorrow with your financials, we'll set things up to make sure you and your café are secure. Alright?" And with that, she left. A few days later, it felt like the entire country shut down.

And now when my buzzer rings, it's a grocery delivery from someone who drops a box of supplies on my doorstep and takes two long strides back away from me to make sure I receive them. I crave contact so much more now that it's forbidden. This thirty second exchange will be the most I'll see anyone for a week.

Sure. I'll probably prank or harass Claire in some way. _Annoying her remotely can be fun._

But she and Klare are still very much in the honeymoon phase of their relationship, so Claire has other things to do. 

Once my groceries are away, I know that bit of excitement is over.

So I scroll through the tiled list of film and show titles on my screen, glancing over at one vibrator that has finished its charging and wondering if I'd rather get off first and then choose a show. When my phone rings, I answer it. _Of_ _course I'm going to answer it...even getting scammed would be something to do._

"Hi," I state while I stare at my computer screen.

"Hello," the voice says in reply.

I lower my phone, staring at the number that is not in my contact list. 

_What the fuck?_

"Who is this?" I say, knowing exactly who it is.

"Oh...uh, it's—"

"I know who it is," I tell the Priest.

"Is this an inconvenient time?"

"Well, it is sooner than never again. But I guess you know that." And then it strikes me, the reason for this call, and even though it's been close to a year, my heart tightens with concern and memories. "You sick?" I ask, any teasing gone from my voice.

"No! I'm fine. I'm fine. Are you well?"

I don't want to be distracted by answering his question. "So you're incredibly bored as well—"

"That's not why I've called."

"So why?"

"I wanted to...see if you're okay."

"I'm okay," I answer without any elaboration.

"Good. That's good." 

"You and God still getting on?"

He chuckles. "Yea. We have our challenges, as in any long term relationship. It's weird, though, not having a congregation in person anymore." _He's eager to talk._

"Are you streaming?" I laugh because that seems ridiculous, that Priest with his fancy clothes, in a formal building, performing age old traditions broadcast in such a modern way.

"Yea," he answers decisively.

"Really?"

"Yea!" he laughs again. _I think he's just a little drunk. And it's eleven-thirty in the morning._ "You can check it out, if you want."

Noting an echo, I ask, "Are you talking to me from inside the church?"

"Yes. Is that bad?"

"You'd have to ask God about that one."

"Well, on the scheme of things I've done, I think he's pretty alright with this."

_I feel tempted to end the call immediately. But damn I love the songy quality of his voice when he speaks. I've missed this. Also, I have literally nothing else I can and want to do right now._

He tells me about the services he's holding, and giving blessings to the sick remotely. He tells me about how he volunteered and did visits until he was prohibited. And then he sneezes. _That's not a symptom, right?_

"Sorry," he says. With a sad chuckle, he adds, "As you can tell, they won't let me in anywhere now. Even the places that once would have bent the rules."

"You are sick," I confirm. "Is it—"

"It's just a sniffle," he insists. "I'm fine. Truly."

"Have you been tested?"

"Yes," he insists.

"And?" I won't let it go, because I can tell when he's being sneaky.

"It's nothing. I'm fine!"

I wait. I'll wait here for hours since I have all the time in the world right now.

He relents, "I don't have the results yet, but I'm okay. Really."

Something strikes me. "So you called because you feel safe."

"What?"

"You know you can't possibly see me right now."

Now he's quiet.

I continue, "That's it, isn't it?"

"I dunno."

"Because you still don't trust yourself with me, and right now there are actual decrees preventing us from getting too close."

"I just wanted to check in." This chuckle is awkward. When it stops, he says, "I've thought of calling you before."

"When?"

"Many times. Kind of...daily."

"Quarantine won't last forever. If we start talking, what happens when that's over? We go back to silence?" I realize I sound hurt here. But that's because I am, and as much as I'm trying not to overthink this, I haven't forgotten the choice he made. And I don't want to wait around for him to make that choice again. And yet with the state of the world, I crave the connection to him more than usual. 

"Haven't thought that far ahead," he confesses. "It's so very quiet here."

"I thought you liked quiet. Peace."

"Too quiet, too still, for too long. And when thoughts come, I don't have much of a way to distract myself."

He must have knocked over those little hand bells or something; I hear a celestial ringing sound abruptly halted. 

He sighs, "If you don't want me to call—"

"It's fine. I'm bored these days," I say, deflecting. 

"Thank you very much, that's so kind," he dryly counters. With a deep breath in, he says, "I'll take what I can get." I hear a glass clank as he pours another drink, and I step out for a smoke, staying close to the house. He can hear the click of my lighter, and he asks, "Have you got a spare?"

I rustle the package like I'm getting him one. "Sure."

"Café alright?"

"I have an investor-slash-partner. It'll be alright. Unless this drags on forever."

"So what have you been doing these last few days?"

"Uh...drinking. Masturbating. Devouring series I never would have bothered with otherwise. I tried reorganizing my closet. Got as far as pulling everything out of it, and then I kind of lost interest. Besides that, juggling fleeting moments of optimism with the overwhelming fear and panic I feel that things will never be okay again."

He laughs more genuinely, although with sad empathy. "I understand that. Much the same here."

"The masturbating?" I tease because I can.

"No," he corrects. "The feelings of optimism and fear and panic. Also starting projects I'm not quite motivated to finish. I am reading quite a bit. And of course the drinking."

We talk back and forth a little while, tiptoeing right back to the flirtation we had before like we had never been interrupted (or acted on that flirtation). And I find myself laughing and feeling understood. 

It's all too easy.

"I've missed having you in my life," he confesses. And then he waits. 

"I've really got to go," I say immediately, suddenly barraged by those feelings for him flooding back into me. I don't know what else to do.

"Oh. So soon? Um...okay."

"Yea, so—"

"Think we'll talk again?" he asks. I can hear the way he tries to smile through his uncertainty.

I sigh, but the words that come out don't seem to come from my head. "Dunno."

"You can call me back at this number. If you'd like. I'd like it if you did."

"Thanks," I say, fighting between the desire to keep this conversation going and the need to end it.

"Take care of yourself," he says.

"You too."

* * *

Suddenly left with a slew of feelings I hadn't asked for, I continue organizing my closet, masturbating, drinking, streaming, and organizing some more. _I can't fucking stop thinking about him._

I convince myself to wait a few days before reaching out. 

_Until at least three days have passed, I will not talk to him. I will not search him on the internet. I will certainly not stream his church service. I definitely will not under any circumstances fantasize about the man. I've made up my mind and am completely immovable about it._

Not even two hours later, I search for his church online. I see newsletters with pictures of him in his priestly duties. I see his little restaurant reviews. I see a link so I can watch the mass he streams each morning, and Saturday evenings. 

_No matter what, I will not watch a mass. It's too weird. Too creepy. Too churchy. I won't do it!_

The following morning I wake earlier than I have since this whole shutdown began. I sit up in my bed, propped on my pillows, and I grab my computer. I can't not watch him.

I'm a few minutes late, and he's already begun. The moment I'm connected, he pauses and looks toward the camera, his words pausing for a moment. I wonder if he can somehow see me.

The church is empty, except for him. And his God, like a bossy imaginary friend, is there as well, I suppose. His voice is very echoic in that empty building. 

There's no music to accompany him, no one to complete the call-and-response pattern of the service. He looks so very alone up there. 

I study him more than I listen, answering his prompts for the empty congregation when I know what I think I'm supposed to say, and if I feel so inclined. 

It hasn't even been a year. Little has changed. He still looks and sounds as I remember. His hair is a bit shaggier and more wild, and I realize the usual places that cut hair are closed. He looks tired. Weary. 

Near the end of the service, he coughs once, harshly. The sound of it booms and echoes through the nearly empty church. It reminds me of a falling painting. And it sure as hell feels like a sign. A portend. A warning. 

No, I still don't believe in God. But this particular silence-shattering sign...well, I may believe in that.

_Odd, isn't it... how fear and uncertainty can either tear people apart or bring them together._

I call that night after spending all day thinking about him. "Hello," he answers, and I wonder if the pleased tone of his voice indicates that he knows I watched earlier. 

"Get your test results back yet?" I ask immediately.

"No," he chuckles. Quickly changing topics, he asks, "What did you do today?"

"Organize the closet, drink, masturbate, repeat." 

"In that order each time? Oddly specific," he teases.

"How about you? What sorts of strange things are you doing in that huge church alone all day?"

"Anointed the sick virtually today."

"What?"

"People often call them last rites...started conducting them through video chat. Until I get my results, I'm not allowed out at all. No one is even allowed into the church until I have a special cleaning service in. Two very active parishioners tested positive. Doing everything online. Something new."

"Sounds like it."

"I'm presiding over a funeral the same way tomorrow. These are strange days. Very strange." He grows quiet. Then I hear a muffled cough. 

"Are you sure you're alright?" I ask, my concern for him showing. I admit it, those feelings for him are still there. You don't feel something as intensely as I did and just shut it off. 

"I'm fine."

"Is Pam there?"

"No. Sent her home with family before things worsened."

"So who will look after you?"

"Look after me?" he blurts. "I'm more than able to—"

"If you get quite ill," I interrupt. 

"I won't."

"But if you do."

"I won't."

"If you do, I'll come," I offer, sense tossed aside too easily. And I don't even for a moment regret the words.

"I won't let you in if I'm ill," he says, a decisive and unyielding declaration, severing the possibility. 

"And if you aren't ill?" I push.

"What?" 

"If you're not ill, will you let me in?"

Silence beats for ages. 

"I shouldn't," he finally replies.

"That wasn't the question."

"I know." 

I can hear the struggle in his voice, and, hoping it may make him open up, I admit, "I went to church today."

"Oh?" He's not sure if it's a joke.

"To your church. Virtually, that is."

"Why?" 

I wish I could see his face. "Wanted to."

"Mmm," he answers without judgment. But I know he already knew. Somehow, he knew.

Hoping my confession has bought me leverage, I ask, "If you weren't sick, would you let me in?"

"You know the answer to that," he says, and I hear a few gulps of drink and the heavy smack of an empty glass on a table. 

"I do?"

"Yea. Why else do you think I asked you not to come? I lack the strength to—" he's interrupted by a quick cough.

"Jesus!" I counter. 

"I'm okay. Really."

"If you fucking have it, and you're lying to me—"

"I'm not lying," he laughs, voice growing louder and higher on the last word. "Results aren't in. Stop worrying!"

"Yea, ignoring it is a great way to deal with things," I sharply counter.

"Seems to be a habit of mine, doesn't it?" he softly mentions. He adds, loneliness apparent in his voice, "I'm staying safe, complete and total isolation." I wonder if he feels this alone all of the time. I think he might. He continues, "Honestly, even with everything going on, I…"

"You what?"

I'm answered with longer silence. I hear things moving in the background, or I'd think I've dropped the call. 

"Come on, just say it," I insist.

"I'm glad to...talk to you and…" I hear rustling again, like he's moving his phone, "...fuck, I've...I've gotta go. It's a family, woman's not doing well—"

"Just go."

"Fuck. Sorry."

"It's okay."

"Okay…" the pause that's there for a split second seems like it may precede something sort of profound, but, remembering his phone, he quickly says, "Okay, bye."

I head straight to organizing my closet for a few minutes. Then smoking. Then a drink. I haven't been immune to the horror stories I've heard, and thoughts of him alone in that building if things become grave terrify me. And I have a horrible flashing thought of him being the type to sacrifice his hospital bed or a ventilator so someone else could have it. _I really, really hope my mind is completely overreacting._

* * *

We speak later that night, and when I answer, he shoves politeness aside and yells, "It's outside the fucking window _right now_!" 

"What?"

"A fucking fox is outside my window as we speak, just waiting for the day I'm allowed to leave."

I giggle softly as I listen to the tirade. Damn, how I've missed this. 

"Care for a drink before bed?" he asks. I can hear the tiredness in his voice as he tries to muster enthusiasm. I think it's more for his benefit than mine. 

"Already in bed," I note, pouring another drink, the bottle held high so he can hear the sounds of pouring.

"Oh," he says, and I know exactly what he's remembering. "You still live in the same place as...the same flat...that I visited?"

"Yea." _Same flat. Same bed._

"Oh, cool. That's nice."

"Yea."

"So you're...on your own these days? Didn't talk someone into waiting out the quarantine with you?"

"Tried to talk my investor into my bed for a few weeks. She declined."

"Oh!" he pauses for a while. 

"You confused? Or turned on?"

"What? No, I just…"

"You like that? The thought of it?" I ask, but he's still silent. I push, "Go on. No one's listening but me. And God, of course, but it's not like he's taking notes of every sin you commit in a creepy catalog somewhere."

He laughs. 

Provoking a bit, I say, "Thinking about coming to my bedroom door, standing there, finding us—"

"No," he interrupts, "I'm not."

"Because your religion forbids—"

"No. Not because of that."

"Then what?"

"If I were to find myself standing at your bedroom door...I just...I wouldn't want anyone else," his voice grows a little softer, "in the way."

I can see it perfectly in my mind, that heavy, aroused stare, imagining him at my door, hands on the doorway as he tries to decide if he should enter, fighting what he wants. I turn to the spot where he should be in my mind, hoping by some miracle to find him right there. 

The doorway is empty.

"Sex," he continues, "when it's _just sex_...well, all kinds of things can be arousing in those disconnected sorts of circumstances. But when there's something more, some deeper connection...well that changes things."

I sit still, suddenly filled with hope, confusion, excitement, arousal, pain. _What's_ _really_ _h_ _appening here?_

I think there's a chance we might break through this months' long separation and that maybe something I thought was completely, utterly dead may actually be very much alive. 

_Odd, isn't it... how fear and uncertainty can either tear people apart or bring them together._

Then he coughs, sharply, loudly. _Is this a sign, too?_

"I should go...I should go," he states certainly, but he doesn't sound happy about it.

"Are you alright?" I ask.

"Definitely," he insists. So very fondly, he says, "G'night."

"Night."

_How in the fuck am I supposed to sleep? What I need is a very long walk and a few smokes and a little cry right now. I settle for pacing indoors, but it's just not the same._

* * *

The next day I venture out for supplies, groceries and such. Just a few things. I know I'm not supposed to leave unless it's critical, but I worry that it might be.

Certain items are hard to find, but I'm able to find some medicine for his cough and a few things to eat. As I walk to his church, concerned about taking the bus, I hope to hell that I see him. Just a glimpse. We don't have to get close, I just want my eyes and his to meet. 

There are signs posted around the church and rectory announcing the quarantine. I walk around to the private church yard and see him ambling in the sunlight. That yard had once been filled with stands and people and music for a fête, and now there's just one priest, alone. He doesn't look like he's horribly ill, but by the way he keeps stretching, I think he's achy. 

He's in his black pants and a slumpy, thick, comfortable shirt, hair even more wild than it had been when I'd watched his church service. He's gazing up at the sky as he walks, perhaps praying.

He literally jumps back when he sees me, immediately holding up both hands and shaking 'no' so I won't come any closer. "It's not safe yet," he says as loudly as he can. We're probably 15 meters apart, plenty of distance. 

I put the groceries down by the church door and step one pace back. "Thought you might need some things," I shout back. 

"Thank you." He studies me, appearing, as it feels like he is too often, conflicted and worried. Then he softens when he realizes I'm not coming closer. His head tilts, his eyes taking on that adoring gaze. His hand comes to his chest as he says, "Damn, it's wonderful to see you."

We lock eyes for a while more, silently, and I know he wants to invite me in, and I want to accept. When we both know that we cannot do the things we'd like to do, he offers a lopsided smile with that look of sadness and longing that seems to define our relationship, or whatever it is that we have. 

I open my mouth, moved by some spirit or something to speak words that I haven't even realized I'm going to verbalize yet. _This is going to be really bad._

He shakes his head before the words emerge and says, "You really should go. Stay home. Stay safe. Please."

I nod, feeling a deluge of sadness, noticing pain caused by more than just this moment. This time, I want to go to him and he wants me to come. It isn't his faith that's stopping us right now. I turn, waving subtly with just two fingers as he waves back with an open hand. 

I feel him watching me, eyes glued to my back, and I fight the urge to turn around with everything I've got. If I turn, I don't think I can stop myself from running to him.

 _Oh, I know how stupid it would be to go there. I know how foolish it would be to hug him, how dangerous it may be to kiss him...for so many reasons._ Even still, I can barely pry myself away _._

So I walk quickly back home, feeling the way he looked at me.

* * *

He calls me that night, enjoying one of the meals I'd delivered. He even writes me a review entitled: 'Give a man a can of soup and he eats for a day, teach a man to can his own soup...well, who the fuck has time for that?'

I don't remember laughing this hard for nearly a year. 

The following day, he conducts two funerals, remotely via computer. And when we talk that night, he just sounds broken. I hear the way it hurts him, the sadness he's swimming in. As he's talking about it, about how hard it is not to be there for the families and how useless he feels, he pauses suddenly and asks, "Why are you listening to all this?"

"Oh, I'm not. I have you muted while I watch infomercials," I tease.

He laughs, coughing a bit at the end. "Really…" he soberly questions. "Why? Why haven't you told me to fuck off?"

I try to think of a good deflection, but he won't let this go no matter how many times I dance around it. Finally I answer, "I just...don't want to. I'm not stupid. I know once restrictions are relaxed, we won't be able to speak anymore. So for now..." I can't finish the thought. 

"I want to see you," he says boldly. "When this is done, I want to see you—I _need_ to see you."

"Sure about that?" I ask, cautioning. 

"Yea. Do you? Do you want to see me?"

"Yes," I answer plainly. 

_Wonder if he'll still feel that way when he can't hide behind a quarantine._


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N-Here's the next chapter, sorry it took so long. Just a quick shout out to @fleabagmemes on Instagram because something she posted there requesting really short fics inspired my favorite line from this chapter (the line that in turn inspired this story). Also because her account and @fleabagsituationpodcast have been essential pieces of my quarantine survival kit._ **

**_Thanks SO MUCH to all readers out there. Hope you're all healthy and safe._ **

* * *

Two days and many calls later, much to my relief, I think his cough actually sounds a good bit better. Our calls are sometimes short but frequent, and usually involve him calling me when he's not busy performing his priestly duties virtually. Those duties are taking a toll, and he sounds emotionally exhausted. 

Tonight, he calls me as he settles in for the night with a drink. He's performed three remote memorial services, offered blessings and taken confessions all day long. So I ask how he is, and he too easily insists that he's, "Just fine." 

"It's okay if you're not," I say.

"Not what?"

"Not fine. Maybe take a few days off. Don't priests get days off?"

He chuckles very softly. I hear him take a drink, and he says, "It's amazing how many people wish to make confessions at times like these, you know?"

"Repentant sinners are spectacular job security."

"True."

"Are they all worried they'll die?"

"That's part of it, for some, I'm sure."

"What's the other part?"

"I think it's quiet. Still. Lonely. The busyness of life has slowed. People are left to consider their lives, their actions, their pasts. Take stock. Even wonder where they're going once this mess clears. It's almost forced introspection."

"Well, you're introspective all of the time, aren't you? Praying and silently pondering."

"Not like this."

"In what way?"

He clears his throat and another drink is taken. 

"Do you remember how to take a confession?" he asks.

The question hangs between us for a minute, the pair of us likely both recalling our shared associations with that ritual. 

"I don't know if I'm in much of a confessing mood," I reply, trying to put up some barrier here.

"No, no. I'm not asking you to 'make' a confession. I'm asking you to 'take' one. Mine, specifically."

"Am I allowed to do that?"

"Does that matter?"

I laugh, softly. "Probably not to me."

"Good."

"It might to you."

"Desperate times and desperate measures," he notes.

"Can we skip to the part at the end where I try to figure out how in the hell to claw you out of those layers of holy black cloth?" I ask, inciting things just enough. _Too far?_

I hear him take a few breaths as he thinks. Finally, playfully scolding, he replies, "No," although I can hear the flirty snicker. 

"Alright. Tell me what I have to do."

"Listen, mostly."

"Without judgment?" I ask, remembering.

"If you can. But I'm mostly interested in the listening part."

I fold my hands on my lap, officially, even though he cannot see me. I clear my throat and say in my most faithful voice, "Good evening, my child. What brings you here tonight?"

He chuckles for a flash, but seems called to a specific goal. His inhalation hissing in through his teeth, he follows with great certainty, "Forgive me, blah blah blah blah blah… I've sinned."

My laughter stops after his end goes mute.

He presses on like he's mustered courage and needs to keep going before it runs out. I can tell by the sound of his voice that he hasn't had nearly enough to drink yet, so this isn't an ill-thought out confession. This is very real. 

He continues, "It's been twelve months and four days since I last kissed you, since I last touched you, since I walked away. Since I...hurt you."

"That's okay," I say too quickly, wanting to ease his worry and ignore the extent of mine. _I really don't want to think about that right now._

"No. Absolving sins comes later."

"Sorry. It's my first time."

He bypasses the opportunity to joke, still honed in on what he wants to do. "And it's not okay. Not really. On top of those sins, I lied. To you. To myself. And to God."

"About…?" I lead.

"Choosing Him. I mean I did. I did choose Him in practical, physical, daily terms. But not fully. It feels like...infidelity—"

"But we haven't done anything. This time."

"But I have, in ways."

"What ways?"

"Because my heart hasn't really ever left you. In my soul, I know...I _know..._ that wasn't the choice I should have made. And that makes me wonder, deep down, why I fucking had to make the choice at all! I know what I agreed to when I took my vows, I'm very aware. But would love really make me a lesser priest? Love, something God Himself created! Ultimately...I just miss you," he admits bluntly. "Every single moment, with each heartbeat."

"Oh, that'll pass," I gently joke, trying to break the severity with some levity.

"It won't. It really fucking won't," he replies with a strict tone that lets me know he's not ready for levity right now. "I miss you so entirely that nothing I do alleviates this feeling. No amount of prayer or devotion, distraction, service. Nothing eases it."

Regretting my joke, I say, "Go on."

"It's truly painful. Spiritually. Physically. Emotionally. And I know that I really fucked up, I mean, I _know_ how badly I ruined it. And I see all of this, the world right now, day after day, people missing their loved one's final moments, filled with the pain of separation, and I truly... _feel_ that. And I look around and I wonder...would it really be so bad? If you and I were to…"

"To…" I lead, half terrified and half thrilled by what might follow.

"Does God really believe that what happened between us, the beautiful connection that we found and shared, shouldn't exist? There was desire, and it was exciting and hot—"

"—really hot—"

"— believe me...I realize it, and I admit that that's true, but it wasn't lust alone. Was it?"

"It wasn't."

"We had something real. Something rare. The thing is, the really crazy thing...is I'm fucking good at celibacy!" he professes, his hand thudding his chest or his stomach, or at least that's what I think I hear.

I giggle softly, maybe too softly for him to hear.

"Don't laugh! I really am!" he defends.

"Okay!"

"And I think I could have done it forever, I truly do. It wasn't the lack of sex I couldn't handle. I just… met you. I fell in love before I saw it coming. I fell into that mutual understanding. So quickly. So easily. And I told you I wanted to be your friend, but really what I wanted most was just to be around you. Near you. Because you made me feel...made me feel...alive. Challenged. Understood. Almost immediately I felt that. Those are rare things to find in this world. For me, anyway."

"They really are." _Is agreeing judging?_

"I liked that feeling so much that I chased it, and once I realized I was in over my head, it was too late. I never thought you'd..."

"I'd what? Have sex with you?"

"No, I was pretty sure you'd do that," he chuckles in spite of himself.

"What then?"

"I never thought...you'd fall in love with me. I thought you'd eventually grow bored and leave me alone. I thought it was safe. I thought...I could handle it. The next thing I knew we shared something. Something real. Something true. When you feel that connection to someone, sex isn't just sex, it's an expression…it's acting on that connection, on the attraction, on the feelings inside that are so big and full that they have to come out somehow. It hit so hard, so fast."

"Yea," I nod slowly, remembering that feeling all too well.

"Why would God want us apart? What if I promised to live a life devoted to Him? If I promised to keep my faith and serve His people and all I want for myself is..."

"What?"

"You. To hold you again. To have...what we had."

"That's between you and God," I manage to say, mind reeling. Hope is too dangerous a thing to hold on to.

"And you."

"What do you mean?"

"It's between God and me and you. God and...both of us. We talk day after day, but I don't know how you feel about all of this. About me. You may hate me after all that's happened."

"We talk several times a day, and you think I may hate you?"

"I don't know. Maybe you pity me."

"I'm concerned for you, but I don't pity you. Or hate you. At all. I never have."

He sighs in a way that's full of relief, then states simply, "Good. That's good." After another breath or two, he continues, "All these things I've seen...make me wonder—"

"Look," I interrupt, "Maybe that's it exactly. You've seen some pretty horrible things as of late, death and loss...you know the state of the world right now. You don't want to make a decision in the midst of a crisis that you'll regret—"

"Or, more accurately, it's taken a crisis to make me see clearly. I was thinking these things before all this. Everything going on has simply added perspective. And perhaps a sense of urgency." He takes another drink. "But back to my confession…"

"Sure."

"I'm heartfully sorry for having hurt you. For walking away—"

"Some would say your choice was admirable."

"No. My choice wasn't admirable," he scoffs. "I walked away because I was frightened more than because I was devout. I was frightened of what I felt, and how fully I felt it, and how intense it all was. And the fact that to do what I should have done, absolutely everything would have had to have changed. It was cowardly. And as I hear others talk about their hopes of being reunited with those they love, the lengths they'd go to, the fact that they'd do _anything_ to be with that person, I know that after this crisis is over...the thing I want most is to be reunited with you. Maybe you don't want that at all. Or maybe you don't know what you want."

"I'd like that, too," I say without taking even a moment to really think it over.

"You would?" he laughs nervously. "That's good. That's really good. You know, through all this, through all that's happened, you've been the one person...the _only_ person I've felt any real connection to. Talking to you is the one thing I've clung to. The thing that's kept me going. And I'm unendingly grateful for that."

"I've really liked talking to you, too."

"Yea?" he counters, his tone so full of optimism. "I guess that's about it, for now."

"So do I assign some sort of punishment or—"

"We call it 'penance', not 'punishment', but yes. It's a way to atone or show repentance, often involves prayer, but sometimes one makes reparations, of sorts. Depends on the sins."

"Okay. Then your penance will be to come tell me in person—"

"You know I can't do that."

"Ah—"

"Not because of that, not the reason you're thinking," he argues quickly. "Because I don't want to expose you to this virus, if I have it."

"Once you're either no longer contagious or you finally get your results. They're taking forever."

"They said there was quite a backlog."

"Once that's settled, and the chaos calms down. Come here, in person, and we'll complete this confession, if you still feel that way."

"I will."

"Okay," I say, although I'm sure he can hear my uncertainty.

"I really will," he insists. "You better be ready."

* * *

Each time he calls, I can feel the grin on my face and flutter in my heart when I see his information pop up on the screen. 

This afternoon, we end up talking about strange dates we've had, and it is, by far, the most open he's ever been with me about his pre-clerical life. Mostly, we make each other laugh, exchanging horror stories. _Is it just me...or does he sound happier?_

"There was one woman…" he starts to laugh, trying to pull himself together after my last tale to tell his story, "when I was in the seminary, God, this woman...was ninety-seven, in remarkable health, given her age. Every time I went in to do my calls at the home where she was living…well, I'll say only that she was very persistent."

"One might say very fox-like in her pursuit?"

"One might! I couldn't walk into her room alone! Perhaps she had dementia, poor woman."

"Oh, if she was after you, she sounds perfectly lucid to me."

"Does she now?"

"I'd still chase you, into my nineties and beyond," I joke.

So we start to offer awards to our stories such as creepiest, funniest, most bizarre, and finally he says, "What award would I get from our time together?"

"You?"

"Nevermind, don't answer that. Not sure I want to know." After a beat, he says, "You know I really hate jealousy in myself, but I'm a bit envious that I fell short of the title I really want."

"What title is that?"

"The best, of course."

I laugh audibly, full of nerves.

He insists, "I'm serious. I want to occupy that spot."

"You were really amazing."

"Don't do that," he plays back, "don't try to soothe my ego. That makes it worse."

"I'm serious!"

He takes a drink and mutters only the words, "Nine times."

I choke a laugh, "Oh god."

"I haven't forgotten."

"Well, I only bothered calling him in the first place because—" I stop my verbal trajectory, holding back and laughing again. _I'm not prepared to say that._ Instead I say, "Sorry you had to be there. His timing was really unfortunate."

But he listened carefully to my words. _He always listens._ He locks in on what he wants to know. "You only called him because…"

"I was bored," I lie.

He waits. Patiently. "Tell me," he requests, his voice gently demanding. 

"I only called him because…" _I don't really have to tell him_ , "...because...I wanted to stop thinking about you."

"Sorry," he says. "I really am sorry."

"You know, I'd been on a celibacy streak myself, when we met. Obviously I had no desire to make that permanent...more of a little sabbatical."

"Really?"

"Yea. I was trying to right my life, avoiding the sort of meaningless encounters that weren't really doing me any good. But after what happened at the church...welI, couldn't stop thinking about...you. And I just wanted to stop it. I wanted anything to distract me."

"If I hadn't walked away, we could have broken each other's celibacy?"

"Mutual de-celibatization!"

He chuckles. 

I start, "Well, he was the best in terms of one night orgasm counts, that's true, but you…" I pause, my words frozen on my lips.

"I what?" he asks. I hear the nervous smile on his lips. "Come on. You've got to tell me. Think of all I've admitted to you! You practically know everything…"

_He does have a shocking number of fascinating tales, especially for a priest._

He coaxes, "...told you the one about the cyclist, and that trip to Sintra that I've literally never told anyone else about!"

I start to laugh again, remembering his animated retellings. Finally my laughter halts, and I say, "He had the highest orgasm count. True. But you were the best encounter. The best night. And I've never regretted it, or you, or what happened between us. Not for a damn second." _Well that sums it up pretty bluntly._

"Really?" he chokes out.

"Yea. And I'd trade fifty nights with him…for one with you." As much as I don't regret our fling, I do regret this confession and the vulnerable place it puts me in. The seriousness of this worries me, so I immediately joke, "Fifty nights with nine orgasms each is a total of 450 orgasms I'm willing to trade in, so that says something."

He laughs, but it's heavy, thick. He's intrigued. "I'd be willing to do whatever it takes to make sure you didn't regret that trade." 

_What in the hell am I doing? I mean, this cannot possibly work out well for us. There's no way. I should just cut this off now, spare myself the heartache and him the emotional anguish and just...just…_

"You would?" I carry on in spite of my reservations. 

"But…"

_Here it comes._

He continues, "I think...what we really need...is more than just one more night to sort this all out."

Of course, as is the case far too often, another call gets in the way.

* * *

He calls back later that same night, very late, and I know without a word from him that he's been thinking about all of this, about the two of us. I can hear it.

"Did I wake you?" he asks. 

_Just the sound of him..._

"No," I answer. A full bottle of conditioner falls into the tub with a very loud splash.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"I'm...having a bath. Just finished running the water so it's a shame to waste it."

"Oh," he says, sounding really surprised, more surprised than he should. 

"Want me to call you back when I'm done or—"

"No, no. It's fine."

Teasing, I suggest, "If it helps, I can tell you I'm fully dressed in here, coat and shoes and—"

"No," he laughs awkwardly, "that's not how I'd like to picture it at all."

_What?_

I take a full inhale before I ask, "How would you like to picture it?"

"As it really is. Water hot?"

"Yea. I'm simmering away in here."

"Your face is probably flushed."

"Probably."

"Like when you're excited, and your cheeks turn bright pink," he says, like he's thinking back. He continues, "Bubble bath?"

"No."

"Good."

"Good?" I laugh. "Something against bubbles?"

"I prefer clear water. Easier to see." The line is silent for a moment, and then he asks, "Want me to talk about something else?"

I bite my lip, thinking. _I should really put an end to this right now. I should be the one to stop it and make sure it doesn't go too far._

"No," I reply. And, fully committing to the fact that I will not stop this, I put my phone on speaker and rest it on the back part of the tub near my head.

"Then what I'm really picturing...is finding you there, soaking in that tub. Since you make no move to send me away, I stay. So I lean against the doorway and simply look at you for a moment. At the way your eyes meet mine, at the way I can see you wondering about what could happen next."

"Look, I like where I think this is going, but are you sure you do?" I ask directly, wanting to clarify one last time because I don't want him to consider this a mistake and pull away from me again. I need these talks, our connection. Some days this is all I've got.

"Yea," I hear the nod. The certainty. He chuckles, like he's surrendering to this, but not unhappily or regretfully, "This is all I'll be able to think about anyway."

"What will you think about?" _I'm not exactly doing a wonderful job of shutting this down, am I?_

"About how I can't turn away, looking at as much of you as I can see from the doorway. About how I'll walk over to you, unable to stop myself. I kneel next to the tub, facing it, my forearms resting on the edge. Finally, I reach forward and touch the hot water, just my fingertips dropping in, close to you without touching you. I note the heat, the warmth of it, but not nearly as much as I notice your leg so close to me that I could easily reach forward and brush against it." 

My legs part slightly, the hot water swirling against the growing pulse between my thighs. And without filter, I say, "My legs would drift apart, inviting you."

His voice so raspy and aroused, he hesitantly asks, "Will you be my hands?"

I nod as if he could see. "Yea," I barely manage to choke out, my fingers playing in the water as I picture his here.

"Rising on my knees, I lean in over the water, kissing you softly, so tenderly it could almost be seen as innocent...although we know it is not. It can't be. My fingers come to your face, moving down over the water droplets on your neck, following the line of your collarbone to the center."

He takes another breath, and I can hear it, the way he's picturing this as well. I rest my head back against the tub, closing my eyes so I can see it all, my fingers resting where he said his should be. 

As I try to envision this, I imagine those arms, those beautiful arms, above the water, and I ask, "You have a shirt on? Your sleeves will—"

"T-shirt."

"Trousers?"

"Well," he says, hesitant to mention his own condition at all.

"How am I supposed to picture it if I don't know what I'm working with?" I prod.

"Joggers." He politely redirects, "My fingers move down the center of your chest, wanting to act boldly, still hoping you won't turn me away. I see your tits, rising just out of the water when you breathe or move a certain way and just...I have to touch them. Have to try. The heel of my hand moves across your body to cradle one in my palm. When you don't resist, I curl my fingers around, circling the nipple, tightening my thumb and finger. I think—I know you can feel how much I want this—want you."

"I can," I softly moan, and it's there, I hear it, and I know he does. It's a real moan, a gasp, a sound of absolute desire and pleasure from just the thought of one of his hands on me. "I remember exactly how it feels when you touch me."

"I remember, too," he admits. I wonder if he's hard, if he's resisting, if he plans on touching himself as well. Before I can ask, he says, "I see the other tit, closest to me, emerging from the water, untouched, so, leaning over the edge of the tub, I take it in my mouth. I start to suck, sipping the little droplets of water from your skin—"

"My back arches, pushing up against you. My hand rests against the back of your head...hoping you won't stop."

"I keep sucking, but my hand lets go, moving down your chest to your stomach, fingers fanning out, moving over your hip, down the outside of your thigh to your knee and over your calf, circling to the front. I know I should be patient, but I also know how very much I want my fingers to climb to the top of your thighs."

"My legs open more, as much as they can, hips shifting toward you, encouraging you to forget hesitation."

"I move up your leg, finding that inner side of your thigh, going ever higher until I feel the heat from you against the heat of the water. I sit back a little to look at you, wanting to watch your face when my touch finally reaches your pussy."

I am so damn hot for him at this point I feel my own wetness coating my sex, refusing to be washed away by the water. I picture many flashes of his touch, from what little experience I had with him, my mind filling in for the senses that can't truly experience him right now, making this feel all shockingly real.

He goes on, "My knuckle brushes against you—"

I moan again, unhindered, as my hand acts on his words, and he groans back at the sound.

He keeps talking, so erotically charged, "—nudging you open so I can explore, finding the wet, soft warmth. God. What I wouldn't do to be there! Are you soaked?"

"Fucking drenched," I say, gasping and crying out a little as I imagine and replicate his touch. "My finger slides around so easily. I'm really, really turned on." His question prompts my own. "Are you?"

"Yea," he answers right away.

"Semi?"

"Well more than."

"Pants under your joggers?"

"No, I—"

"Then I reach out of the tub, grab the waist of your joggers with one hand and shove the other hand into them. My fingers wrap around your cock, wanting you so hard, so ready, so turned on, because I want you in this with me. I want _you_ in me."

"I want that, too," he replies, but I'm sure he's not fully cooperating.

"You'll be my hands, too. Right?" I ask.

He doesn't reply with words, but I can tell exactly when he touches himself, a sharply hissed breath followed by a stifled groan coming from him.

"Not too tightly yet," I order, loving these sounds, his voice, his excitement. I don't know how we got here or what prompted him to cross these lines, but this is the most excitement I've had since the last time we were together. "Soft strokes, light. For now."

"Okay." He's so excited it seems like forming words is a real struggle. "My thumb moves against you, sliding up to your clit, circling with those same kinds of soft touches. I love watching you, watching your face, the way you look when you're like this." Breaking out of the fantasy for a moment, he pleads with thorough honesty, "Fuck, how I want to taste you right now."

My mouth goes slack, imagining that for a moment, the pulsing need growing and becoming really angrily insistent.

"I'm tired of this wall between us," I complain.

"What?" I hear him stall.

"The wall of the tub. The side."

"Oh."

"So I reach over and pull you in with me. I want your weight against me, your body closer, so close."

"I'm kneeling at the end of the tub—"

"My legs and arms immediately wrap around you, water splashing to the floor, soaking your clothes—"

"Who even notices that," he chuckles, and from the movement I hear, I'm pretty sure he's shoving those joggers down, out of the way.

"I move up closer to you—"

"My arm's behind your back, lifting you, pulling you toward me—"

"I grab your erection, guiding you into me because I can't wait another damn second—"

"I push into you, the urge completely overwhelming, going exactly where I need to be—"

"Where I want you to be—"

Bringing me to reality, he demands, "Slide your fingers inside." And yea, I cry out, from the feeling of my own hands, from his words, from the excitement of it all. "I wish I could be inside you right now."

"Me too. Tighten your grip on your cock, imagine pushing into me," I know he does because of that whimpering grunt. I love that sound _._ I wish his face was right against my neck, his chest on mine, so I could feel that sound as much as hear it. 

"Use your other hand to touch your clit, use two fingers against it, like I do—"

"I remember. Damn that felt good. Feels good now. Almost as good as you."

"I don't think anything feels as good as you."

"But I'm imagining you in me, feeling you buried all the way in."

"I'd pause just a second there, enjoying the tight pressure of you around me, holding your face, kissing you, hands on your cheek, on your back, on your sides. I want to touch everything, all of you. I can't maintain the pause, I have to move, I have to fucking move in you, with you. Because the feelings, all of them. I need—"

"—I need—"

"—and I want—"

"—oh damn how I want—"

And the words that follow are barely words at all. Mostly grunts and moans and groans and gasps. Little fragments of words. And pants. And heavy sighs.

My hands work against me, one hand shoving my fingers into me, my other fingers fervently swirling over my clit. I can hear him, the rustling on the other end of the line as he pleasures himself, his breath growing harsher by the second. I start to cum first, I think, legs tightening around my hands, my sounds showing him what this is all doing to me. I realize what the sound of me orgasming does to him. 

Hearing him makes me wish he were here, on top of me, inside me, right in the confines of this tub. When he finally surrenders to pleasure fully, I hear the phone drop, thudding, thumping, maybe lost in some sheets or clothes. 

There's a slightly muffled, "Fuck, damnit," a moment later. The voice grows clearer. I know he's close to finding his phone even if he doesn't know it yet. "Where in the hell...oh…" He clears his throat. "Sorry. My phone...uh...dropped."

"Yea. I could tell," I giggle softly. 

* * *

The next day, I'm up early, feeling the loose relaxation of sex that was surprisingly good given the very literal distance between us. That loose relaxation sits right next to my concerns that there will be some fallout from our little call the night before. I still don't really understand why he was so adventurously un-priesty. By ten, I send a rather neutral text and wonder if I should wait at a bus stop for him to tell me goodbye again. 

The response takes longer than I wish it would and only says, 'I'll be in touch shortly.'

_Not really the reassuring answer I was hoping for._

As I stand in the kitchen, trying to decide whether or not to make some bread or a treat to keep me busy from my thoughts, _My heart really isn't into making the effort,_ the buzzer sounds.

I tighten my robe and walk toward the door like aliens or the undead may wait on the other side. _I don't have a delivery scheduled today, and with social distancing being what it is, aliens or the undead seem like a perfectly reasonable possibility._

When I can see the door but I'm not directly in front of it, the letter box opens, and I hear someone bending down to it. With full-on confessional style, I hear the words, "Forgive me, Love, for I've really fucking sinned."

I stall, staring. 

"You said I had to come here to complete my confession and receive my penance," he adds.

I bend down, looking back through at him, finding playful eyes awaiting me on the other side. 

"Hello," he says, waiting less than patiently for some form of response.

I'm sure my confusion is plainly written on my face. _Honestly, I'd be less confused by an appearance of the undead right now. Not that I'm not thrilled to see him, but he's been pretty adamant about maintaining distance._

"Umm. Hi," is my own eloquent reply.

"Can we talk a moment?" _Does he actually think I'm capable of sending him away?_

I open the door as quickly as I can manage, but he walks back a few steps. He glances over me like he can't avoid it, appearing quite pleased just to be looking at me. He explains, "Test results came back this morning. Negative. I don't have coronavirus."

"Really?"

"Yea. Just had a normal virus, I guess. Feeling pretty fucking good today, though."

"Well, you look pretty fucking good today," I counter.

"You as well."

He's still standing back, his hands politely clasped in front of him. There's some kind of bag over his shoulder behind him. 

"You don't have to let me in," he quickly adds. "I wanted to tell you in person. Actually, that's only part of the truth. I wanted to see you. I thought if I don't have it, and you don't have it..."

"Yea. Not that I know of. I've been really good at hiding here. Alone."

"So I could leave, if you want, very content to have delivered the news, and laid eyes on you, and we could talk later on the phone."

"Or…"

"Or...I could come in, share a little of this quarantine with you. Which is against the rules of social interaction these days, but if we only see each other, perhaps bending these rules could be considered a worthwhile risk."

_He hasn't mentioned the church rules we broke last night, or those we'll likely demolish if I allow him to come in._

He continues, "And then we could…"

"We could..."

"Yea," he nods, volumes of intentions agreed upon with barely a word. 

"Yea," I mirror his nod. _I mean of course I'm going to fucking let him in._ Stepping back, I sweep a hand to invite him to enter.


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N-apparently with each Fleabag story I tell a lie where I say my story will be a certain number of chapters but then I need one more. :) So there will be one more after this. I'm trying to be faster on this, but life is really getting in the way, so thanks again for your patience, for your kindness, and for reading._ **

* * *

Tension rises exponentially with each step as The Priest enters my flat, pausing as he walks by me, only the very slightest distance between us. We share a smile. Close, so close, closer than we've been in just over a year. A blush rises up both our faces, frozen here in place. I turn slightly away, breaking the spell that's locked us and looking in the direction I want him to go. I am completely, entirely, unprepared to face him today.

_It's not that I don't want him here. I've no lipstick, no coat, not even anything under this robe. I'm not armoured for this. It's unexpected. And wonderfully erotic._

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and his nerves, and asks after he scans the room, "Did you paint in here?"

"No," I reply, locking the door behind us, uncertain how it is that he's standing before me.

"New furniture?"

"No."

"Guess I wasn't really paying attention to the surroundings the last time I was here."

"Probably not."

We've exchanged so many little intimacies recently, become close, shared our fears, regrets, laughter. We've gotten to know each other again, likely better than before. But something about being face-to-face makes this feel both familiar and foreign. I wonder if we should pick up our phones and talk this out from different rooms.

He begins, calling up an intentional smile, "So—"

"How are you here?" I interrupt.

"Umm...well, test was negative, so I started walking."

"But how are you here in my flat instead of doing church things? Don't you have virtual duties?"

"Kind of a funny story, actually. Received a call from the Bishop late last night. Several parishioners contacted the Diocese regarding my health and wellbeing after seeing me online the last couple weeks. They were concerned since I clearly wasn't well. Took a few days to arrange it, but a temporary replacement has been assigned, I was put on leave, told to take time to recuperate. I mentioned I was feeling better, but they felt, given the severity of some cases and the emotional toll, that it was best if I had time to recover and seek help, if I need it. I was about to argue, but I thought it might give us time to...catch up. Then this morning, my results came in," he looks up in a moment of silent gratitude, "so after months of contemplation and prayer about what to do about these feelings I harbor for you, we may have a chance to try to sort things out. An answer to my prayers."

I joke, "I'd think God would rather strike me down in a fiery burst of flames than arrange a fling for us, don't you?"

"I refuse to pretend that's all this is," he says with utter sincerity, eyes narrowed and jaw firm. 

"How long is your leave?"

"Fourteen days. More, if I need it."

"So I get to borrow you from God?" _Fourteen days with him is far more than I thought I'd get. Although I don't even want to think about the fifteenth day._

He silently notes my temporary distraction. 

"I don't know what to do yet," he says when I focus back on him, his struggle with all of this still plain. "But I have to do _something_. Trying to forget you didn't work. Be it right or wrong, deeply romantic or horribly immoral, I'm still in love with you. If you prefer, there's a monastery I can go to that's set up for the current health crisis. Say the word, and I'll go there to try to figure out what I'm doing."

"You don't have to go." 

"We can just talk, have a drink, if you'd like."

His eyes have a pleading quality that his words don't mirror, wide and open. He is offering so much of himself here, from a vulnerable place few have the courage to approach from. 

I don't think I've ever been looked upon with as much empathy and understanding as when he adds, "If it's too much to expect you to open these wounds, I com—complete…ly..."

His words stall as I step closer, realizing now that we weren't all that far apart to start with. I'm very close, those same understanding eyes appearing a little hazy with adoration. 

"What if I want more than talking and drinking?" I ask.

"That's okay, too." With a charged flicker of a smile, he says, "We could always start working on those 450 orgasms I owe you."

"That specific number is completely unimportant," I say with some sincerity, and just when I know he expects me to say something really reassuring, I tease, "I mean, I'm far more interested in 347 high-quality orgasms that really—"

I'm interrupted by his laughter, a true, clear laugh, and he replies, "High-quality? Who determines what qualifies as high-quality?"

"I do, obviously."

The tension between us pulls, oddly counteracted by the nervous and uncertain resistance we both feel, the question that rings through unspoken, asking: _Should we?_

I don't think we can stop ourselves.

He's waiting, waiting for a signal that it's okay to proceed. I know from that look that it isn't church that's holding him back at this moment. He's waiting on me. Because the yearning from him is clear, the longing, the need, is entirely obvious. No part of me wonders if he's torn on this. He wants me. And I feel that tantalizing thrill of realizing someone I want wants me, the excitement of being desired and craved in this way. That alone is enough to turn me on. 

But then there's the more-ness of this. 

I consider welcoming him in with a kiss, tender, sweet. It's worked before. I want him, too, not sweetly and delicately, but in that same powerful, almost furious way. I want him and the more-ness of it all as well.

I take the half-step needed to be painfully close, my hand reaching up to rest against his chest. He covers it with his own, holding it in place. The weight of this all is so heavy it's hard to breathe. 

He leans toward me, still clasping my hand to his chest. And from the second he reaches forward, his fingers resting at the back of my neck, the penned up need for each other is released in a kiss that truly steals my breath, my thoughts, my balance. I slip my hand out from between us, wanting to hold him, too, to bring him closer, to have no useless space between. I missed the way this man kisses, the wholeheartedly unrestrained way his mouth meets mine. This is somehow hungrier than last time.

We're really terrible at the new rules of social contact. I didn't have him sanitize his hands when he arrived. We're not separated or masked. We're touching each other's faces. We're gonna have sex with as little distancing as humanly possible. 

His arms are around me, hands moving quickly down my back, over my hips and arse, neck and face, all while those lips scarcely leave me for a second. Sometimes I don't think my feet are even touching the floor. 

There's nothing at my back to stop my fall, no wall or sofa or bed for him to securely shove me against. It's just him at my front and the way his touch surrounds me.

He tugs at my robe, pulling it open before the tie is even released. He touches me beneath it, noting that this time I'm not wearing anything else below my outer layer. Pulling back just a little, offering a horny and amused grin, he shakes his head. I know what he's thinking...that he's remembering my coat with too little on beneath from before, and the similarities and differences between that outfit and this one. He's thinking about the fact that this time, there's nothing beneath it at all, not even a clasp or strap he'll have to contend with. 

He'd really like to make a joke about it. But he can't articulate the words.

Even while he smirks at me, he's messing with the tie that's now been pulled too tight, so it's difficult to unknot. With beautifully lusty impatience, he reaches around me, grabbing the top of the robe near my shoulders and tugging the damn thing down to the floor that way. 

He pulls back suddenly, remembering a pesky detail that needs to be dealt with. His breath is fast, shaky, his eyes moving over me. Quickly shrugging his shoulder out from under the heavy bag he's brought with him, he puts it down on the floor. It must have been quite a weighty burden he's carried all this way as he looks pleased to be relieved of it. 

Moving his shoulders to release the tightness, he's back to me as quickly as he can be. "That's better," he replies just before his lips return to mine. 

Even though I have less on than I did the last time we did this, he's wearing more, and I find it amusing as well that he always seems to be the more complicated one to disrobe. But he helps, tugging his jacket off like he doesn't care if he loses his arms in the process. I gasp when his shirt is finally gone, when his chest and stomach are against mine, bare and warm.

I just can't fucking believe he's here. That I can look at him, and feel him again, and smell him again, and taste him again.

It's strange to only now be close to the man I had fantistic sex with last night. Over the phone or not, it felt very real to me.

He clears his throat, and it reminds me that he wasn't feeling well all too recently. "You sure you're up for this?" I ask, hoping to hell he is, but it would be horribly uncaring not to ask.

"Fuck yea," he says, parts of his words muffled as he slides down my chest to my cleavage. After he processes the question for a few seconds, he continues, "Why would you ask that?" although he hasn't really stopped what he's doing to clearly make the inquiry. 

"You seemed pretty ill with whatever non-coronavirus you picked up."

"Right, yea." Momentarily pausing, he stands fully upright and looks at me. He touches his heart as if maybe that had been part of the problem, or perhaps he means it's too full and happy to be bothered with thoughts of illness. "I'm good." His head shakes as he looks over me, naked here before him, glancing the whole way down to the ground where my stripped off robe circles my feet like a navy blue halo. Maybe he can't believe we're together again either. He blows out his next exhale in a slightly overwhelmed but appreciative way. "I'm _really_ good now."

But that look quickly transforms back to that of a person pursuing, driven by the need to capture something (or someone). I really don't give a fuck if the rough way he pulls me back to him, hands grasping decisively and taking the lead, drives me wild with wanting and makes me a bad feminist. I want to be devoured by him.

His belt, button, and fly were somehow undone during our previous groping, so I slink my hands over his hips and down his legs beneath his clothes to strip him down. I purposefully avoid reaching for his erection because I want to hang on to this frenzied level of desire a bit longer, hoping to prolong it just a little more because I don't think I've ever been wanted like _this,_ and the sensation is addictive. 

His hand presses against my thigh to part my legs. Eyes locked on mine in a connection I wouldn't dare break, he carefully drops to his knees without having to be ordered to kneel. He raises my leg and rests my foot on the edge of the sofa. Even gazing up adoringly at me from that position, he's still in pursuit.

Thumbs on the inner edges of each of my thighs, his fingers reaching around my legs as far as they can, the contact moves upward. His grasp is firm, calmly desirous, and that touch alone would probably feel wonderful if I could clearly feel anything except for the screaming need inside me and the thudding pulse in my sex that demands: _now_.

I watch his every move, each blink, each glance, the way he subtly parts his lips as he draws closer. 

His thumbs reach the top, finally at my pussy after taking half an eternity to arrive (I'm over this whole prolonging thing already), and he parts my folds enough to let the cooler air brush over me. The contrast provokes more pulses and flutters. 

I try to resist the urge to grab a handful of his disheveled hair and yank his face to where it should be. I'm not sure if I'll be able to hold out or not.

He licks a path closer, closer, his hands opening me more to him. My wetness mixes with the air and the heat from his body, and when the tip of his tongue finally reaches out and just taps my clit, I call out, "God, yes," and I hope it doesn't remind him that my body is not the thing he's really supposed to be worshipping.

I'm not even sure if he heard.

It's just the tip of his tongue at first, sliding around, refamiliarizing himself with my body, with the spots that make me moan with excitement, with the pressures and types of touches that I want. By the time his lips tightly circle my clit and start sucking in rhythmed pulls, I'm almost there.

His hands are still in place, keeping me right in position, pulling me forward in time with those sucks like I'm thrusting into his mouth. It's exquisite. And impossible to resist. 

I cum so hard and so fully after so much wanting that I can't even make a sound. There are no curses offered or sexy little cries or wild screams. I'm frozen, still, consumed by rapture. I'm holding his shoulder with one hand, white-knuckled. My other hand is in a fist in front of me, unable to even reach out to grab him. When the intensity lessens the slightest bit, I'm able to quickly inhale again and then finally moan out the most sexually gratified sound I think I've made.

He stands in front of me, arm wrapping around my waist again, providing some stability to counteract my unsteadiness.

His hand moves between my legs as my heartbeat calms. I wonder if he's thinking about orgasm counts right now or if this is simply what he wants to do.

His finger moves inside me, not even fully at first, and it takes only a moment before I'm rocking against him, wondering if I'll ever be able to have enough of this. Slinging an arm around his shoulder both for balance and because the feeling of him against me is too good to deny, I touch his face and bring him closer before he slides a second finger into me, and I cry out into his mouth.

I kiss his top lip and the bottom one, and when they part further for me, my tongue joins his. 

I don't mind the taste of me in his mouth. I fucking love it, love the reminder of what we've just done. 

He's still worked up and yearning, so far without relief, so his kisses and touches and groans are those of one still filled with desire at its fullest.

The heel of his hand presses against the front of my body as his fingers push deep inside. He holds me there as he whispers indelicate words of encouragement against my neck. I orgasm again, all too easily, against his hand. Half of my excitement comes from the touches themselves and half comes from the thrill of knowing it's him. It's forbidden, yet unavoidable. Even knowing the possible consequences and obstacles, he's back here with me.

He is still not fully undressed. I mean, he's mostly there, just not entirely. He kicks off his shoes and sheds the rest, the built up tension in him so tight that it seems to be bordering on really annoying. 

Wondering if he'll finally chase some of his own pleasure, I decide to make that decision for him. 

I wrap my fingers around the base of his cock, and stroke once, watching his eyes close and jaw go tight. I do it again just to watch the satisfaction it brings him, to watch the way thought completely ceases and his plans are all momentarily forgotten. 

Keeping me near so I'll follow along, he sits on the sofa and pulls me down onto his lap. I rise, my knees pressed into the seat, his hands on my waist, bringing me toward him. He looks pleased to find my tits in his face, nipping at them.

I so desperately now want to get him off, to remind him of the benefits of forgoing celibacy.

And I want him inside me, to feel that sensation of being penetrated and stretched and filled, to give him the sensations of being warm and surrounded and squeezed.

I let him in. I feel the contentment he finds at finally being inside, coupled with the urgency of needs yet unfulfilled. 

As I bring our bodies together, he rests his hands on my thighs, sometimes kissing, sometimes sucking, sometimes watching. I don't remember him accepting and receiving pleasure passively like this the last time. He's trying, he's really trying, not to take the upper hand right now. At first it isn't that difficult, but that doesn't last.

He's seizing control and losing it all at the same time. It isn't a gradual shift, it's a sudden switch.

Like he's silently arguing with his body, he shakes his head subtly, but reaches out, one hand grabbing onto my arse and the other onto the back of my neck. The acceptance of passivity has been shut off.

Careful, fleeting kisses become one heavy, demanding one as he moves us more urgently, his hips rising up to meet me, bodies colliding and rebounding.

This isn't bland or boring or tepid. It's the kind of raw, desperate, fervent fucking that's exactly what I want. I make stuttered sounds with his thrusts, the kind that betray how close I am. Again. That seems to ruin any control he thought he had over himself. He breathes heavily, "Almost—" interrupting himself with a growl through clenched teeth. 

The sound of him like that, on the verge, is all I need. My hips slow a little as I'm caught up in the height of my climax, but he doesn't slow at all. His moves become wilder and more hurried beneath me as he just desperately needs to get there. And that type of fast and hard friction within me as I'm already spasming just makes my insides clasp down on him more. 

His orgasm hits him hard, with a fury that overcomes him completely. 

A minute passes. Maybe two. He pants, his voice robbed of strength, "I really fucking love you. I do."

I _never_ believe words like that said just before sex when someone's trying to get laid. Or during sex when physical feelings obscure good sense. Or just after sex when orgasms cloud judgement.

I believe him.

* * *

We're lying in my bed in the evening after eventually making it here. Just outside my room, there are cages for guinea pigs and a hamster (I couldn't leave them alone at the café). A chorus of squeaking nags us, so I grab them some carrots, and I tell him about how I moved them here.

When I get back into bed with him, he says, "That's five, by my count."

"Guinea pigs?"

"Orgasms toward the vast total I owe you."

"Oh!" I giggle. "No." I shake my head and wait. _It's so fun messing with him._

"Really?" he looks crestfallen. "Three when I first arrived—"

"—yea—"

"—one in the hall—"

"—true—"

"—one this last time."

"No. Sorry."

He tries to figure it out, looks disappointed like he fears he's let me down.

"Two the third time," I explain after I let him wonder just long enough. 

"One."

"Two. Trust me, I'd know better than you."

"Won't argue that. You just...you didn't let on. Or I didn't notice."

"You were busy cumming. It's okay. You earned it."

"Right," he nods, sitting back into that memory for a moment. 

"You know I really don't care about the number of orgasms," I say. _I really don't. Believe me, I've no complaints._

"No, I don't either," he says. _He's lying. He wants to beat nine tonight._

After some silence, he says, "What's that like, multiple orgasms?" He's not boasting, he's truly curious, and given the things we've managed to talk about lately, no topic seems out of bounds.

"It's great," I respond, chuckling. "I mean...it doesn't always happen. Sometimes there aren't any at all."

"I enjoy mine immensely—"

"—understandable—"

"—but sometimes I wish I had more of an opportunity to continue. Clearly that's not what I'm thinking about at the time because at the time, all I can think about is…" he makes an exploding gesture with his hands as his eyes flash widely. "But when I'm not there in the moment I sometimes think that. You know?"

"Actually, I don't know. I may have looked like a boy, but I've never really been one."

He chuckles. Staring at the ceiling, clearly still pondering, he says, "Do you ever wonder what it feels like for the opposite gender?"

"Yea," I nod freely. 

"Me too," he confesses pensively.

"I don't want to be a man on a permanent basis," I add, "but I'd like to visit it and see what it's all about. Just once, to know what it _really_ feels like."

"It could offer me tremendous insight if I could experience everything firsthand. Mostly I'd just like to, you know..." his fingers fiddle with the air as he thinks, "play with things for a while and figure out what it's like."

"You can play with my things, and I'll try to describe it."

"But would you be honest, or would you say what you think I'd want to hear?"

"I'd be honest."

He pretends to pout and says, "Nice of you to offer, but it's not the same." Then he beams as he conveys his enthusiasm for this idea. "Could be fun. Worth a try."

Thinking again (because he's almost always thinking), he asks, "D'you think it feels as good when someone goes down on you as it feels when they go down on me?"

"Depends on the person doing the going down, I'd think."

"Suppose those people were of equal skill. What then?"

"I dunno." _I love this entire fucking conversation._ "Maybe we could switch genders for a day, like frogs or toads or whatever it is that does that," I suggest.

"What?" his confusion is so hot. 

"Frogs or toads, one species somewhere can switch genders, if necessary. I think Chatty Joe mentioned that once on a particularly chatty day."

"Right." He has no idea who Chatty Joe is. "And he talks while—you know, forget it."

"Too bad we're not frogs."

"Too bad." His hand rests on his chest, thumb tapping as he thinks. "Do you have any ancestral remains or holy talismans lying around?"

_Can't wait to see where this is going._

He adds, "Because if I believe the films of my youth, if we hold such an object between us, get very emotional while we both touch it, scream about not knowing what it's like to be in the other's shoes, the mystical powers of the relic will force us to switch bodies until we gain that very understanding."

"Such a shame that I threw out the last of my holy talismans when I reorganized my closet."

"Too bad," he smirks as his chest shakes with laughter. "Funny how many stories were based on that same ridiculous thought, isn't it?" 

"It isn't any more ridiculous than the idea of transubstantiation, is it?"

"How do you know about that?" he asks, a huge and fascinated grin on his face, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes lively as they search for answers. 

"I just do."

"No...you don't know about that unless you're very Catholic, or a religious scholar, or have done your research. Were you researching because of me?"

"I don't know," I feel suddenly defensive. _Can't I keep anything secret? There are downsides to hanging out with a listening man._

"Okay," he surrenders, but unhappily.

When I don't like the chilling of the mood, I admit, "I may have looked up some of the differences between various Christian cults—I mean sects."

He narrows his eyes, silently amused at my phrasing. But he insists on following up, "Why would you do that?"

"Because," I say, tightening my jaw, "there are priests and holy people in many other denominations who are not forced into the archaic and insane practice of celibacy, and I wanted to know what made the groups different and therefore made one favorable over the others."

After a second of contemplation, he rolls back and pulls me on top of him, his hands capturing mine so I won't hurry off. "That's so hot."

"How?" I blurt out a laugh. "Church talk makes you hot? You really are a little twisted, aren't you?"

"A little," he allows. Clarifying so the truth is understood, he soberly comments, "It's hot because you looked, because you wanted to know. And because you told me what you were thinking, for once. Aaaand…"

_Here it comes._

He goes on, "...and because I think...you may want to keep me in your life as much as I want to keep you in mine." He's initially boldly confident, then as the words sit there, he starts to question whether he should have said them.

"Oh, there's no way," I joke. "You want me way more."

I anticipate a volleyed back jab, but he says, "I am absolutely positive that's true."

His response throws me off my bantering rhythm. My fingers draw circles on his chest, and he doesn't fill the space with talk. He waits, accepting silence, letting everything sink in. I say, "Probably wasn't easy calling after all that time. Or coming here today."

He slowly sighs. Perhaps he's revisiting memories. Finally he admits, eyes probing mine, "Far easier coming than it was staying away." 


	4. Chapter 4

**_A/N-Hi everyone! Thank you all so much for reading, liking, and commenting! Your responses are so deeply appreciated. Sorry for these long delays. This is the last chapter of this story. I hope you've enjoyed it, and that everyone is staying healthy and safe._ ** ****

* * *

_I truly like him being here. I like the way he sits around so informally dressed, the way he knows where to find a glass to pour his own drink. I like how I know I'm allowed to touch him. At least for a few days more. But I'm not going to think about that._

Early in the morning just over a week after he showed up on my doorstep, I smell breakfast as I step out of the bath. Covering myself in the same robe I had on the day he showed up here, I pop into the kitchen and see him wielding a hot pan. 

"Breakfast!" he announces happily. "I won't pretend to be an accomplished chef, but I make pretty damn good eggs."

He carries the pan to the table and slides the eggs onto the plates. _Thoughtful._ I glance down at the food. _Are eggs supposed to look...like that?_

We both take our seats, and he nudges my plate with his knuckle and says, "Go on," while he lifts his fork and waits for me to try them.

I take a bite and try desperately to hide my displeased confusion. _How is it possible that the center is completely dried while the top is still really soggy?_

"Mmm," I nod as I reach for salt and pepper like they may somehow make this dish palatable. He doesn't believe this performance and brings his inquiries directly to the eggs.

He takes a bite, chews at first with a smile that fades into a disgusted frown. He pushes the plate away. "That's fucking awful!"

"No," I try to defend, "it's...it's…" _we both know it's fucking awful,_ "It's...oddly powdery in the middle, isn't it?"

"How did that happen?" he laughs as he shakes off his failure and the taste in his mouth, gulping down some water. "Erm...toast then?" he offers.

"Probably should."

So he tells a story as he locates bread about another disastrous meal he once made. _I could watch him for hours. Honestly, he seems genuinely happy these days_. 

He tilts his head and waits with narrowed eyes when he realizes I'm not really listening. 

"Go on," I reply.

He continues telling his story. This happiness he exhibits makes him even more vibrant than he'd been before. Simply being around him is sort of intoxicating. 

I get up to join him, fetching some mugs. I feel this huge swelling in my chest, my mouth practically stuck in a wide grin full of admiration and amusement just from watching this retelling. All of these happy, amorous, joyous feelings are unexpectedly swallowed up by a stab of sadness. No longer listening, I clearly state, "This _really_ scares me." _I wasn't supposed to say that._

"Oh, fuck you," he chuckles, his back to me as he scrapes the inedible food into the bin. "I swear I'll never touch the eggs again."

But he finds silence in response and turns back to see me. "Not the eggs," I explain.

His smile abandons his face as he brushes his hands on a towel and comes to join me.

"What?" he carefully prods. "You mean this virus and—"

"No," I completely reject that thought, then think better of it. "Well, sure, but...that wasn't what I meant."

"What did you mean then?"

 _Don't say it._ "You."

"Me? Why?" 

"You," I affirm. "Me. This—the way I feel...with you."

I wasn't prepared for this conversation, but apparently I've started it. 

It's so hard navigating a relationship that is somehow days long and a year old at the same time, one that pretends to be casual while it almost has to be something serious by its very nature.

"I understand," he says, his hands on my arms below my shoulders in a reassuring partial embrace. 

The dam has broken and my words pour out, "I know you do. I'm trying to enjoy this, I _have been_ enjoying this, while it lasts, but I can only ignore reality for so long, and I just don't see how this can possibly work out beyond the terms of your leave, and I can already see myself sitting here when you walk away again when—"

"Don't," he interupts with frustration that's augmented by guilt, "don't say that."

"Even if I don't say it—"

He speaks over me, "Trust me, please, just a little, that I wouldn't have reopened these wounds without the deepest forethought and utter certainty. I know what's on the line, and I know the pain I might cause if I'm not careful. And rest assured that I do not, at all, want to repeat the past." 

"Normally it wouldn't matter."

"What wouldn't?"

"If it ended after two weeks. But you..." I pause for a breath as I shake my head, "it matters."

"If we both decide we want this to work...it can."

_'It can' and 'it will' could be two very different outcomes._

He breaks the tension and jokes, "It may not seem I want this to last since I'm clearly trying to poison you with my cooking."

"That's what made me really nervous," I volley back.

"We'll work this all out," he offers with that smile that still pierces through my defenses and goes straight to the heart of me. He says it like it's easy, like it's as simple as compromising on a duvet or agreeing on where to order takeaway. He's forgetting what it will take to make that happen.

I nod, trying to let his certainty be enough.

"You know you're the only one I've been with since I chose this life. There's been no one since you," he says as he returns to the toast. "Even though I thought about it just to try to forget."

_Hope he doesn't expect me to say he was my last._

"I don't expect any such thing from you," he says, reading my mind.

"Well that's good," I counter lightly. Smiling timidly toward the wall, I add, "Something really strange though…"

"What's that?"

"Each of them were ridiculously annoying in some way."

"Lucky me."

"Weirdly loud and aggressive breathing sounds while sitting perfectly still. Cold, stiff statue lips. Mind-numbing stories told without an ounce of flair."

"Yea. Who would stand for that?"

"But it wasn't until you called a few weeks ago that I realized the horrible flaw they all shared, the thing I couldn't overlook."

"Too tall and unconflicted?" he says with a play at self-deprecation.

"They weren't you."

He stares silently at first, perhaps stunned by my directness. When he finally takes all that in, he replies, "Well, I am very pleased to say...I am absolutely as 'me' as anyone can get."

* * *

We really should be sleeping by now. It's very late, and we've every right to be exhausted. He rolls to face me, his arm around me, his knee resting on my leg. 

"Almost like Christmas," he notes, giggling in this adorably sleepy way, spoken at a soft volume that confesses his tiredness. 

_Not sure what he's driving at, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm really not horny right now._

"You ready to go again?" I ask.

"Fuck no," he replies with blunt honesty. "You?"

"Not at all."

"Thank God. No, I meant the little lights."

I turn in the direction he's looking, and I see the indicator lights on vibrators where they were left charging. "Oh, that's how I'll decorate my tree this year. Beautiful, pleasurable, convenient."

He chuckles again, resting his face on the pillow near mine. Again I expect him to sleep, but he asks, "Is that an environmental thing? Rechargeable ones instead of using batteries?"

"You think I'm an environmentally conscious masturbator?" I smirk. 

"I dunno."

"Lasts longer, so I don't have to deal with finding batteries when I'm halfway through a wank all the time. Bit more zip, too. And sure, the environment."

"Right."

"Sex toys offend you?"

His voice stronger with conviction, he argues, "I had a life before I became celibate, you know!"

_It's really fascinating how much he tries to prove how unholy he can be these days._

"I know! I wasn't sure if priests were anti-sex toys," I argue.

"Well, I'm pretty sure the fact that I'm having sex at all will get me into plenty of hot water all by itself."

"Some non-priesty people don't approve of them either."

"I don't mind."

"Really?"

"Really."

"What about masturbation?" I ask next.

"What about it?"

"Do you find it immoral?"

"No. Not unless one has made vows to abstain from it."

"Do you think it's sort of cheating? If you do that when you have a partner?"

"That's ridiculous."

"It is, isn't it? What about role play?"

"Everybody does that." 

"Sadly, they don't. How about a spot of bondage, or randomly selecting a page from the Kama Sutra, or learning—"

"I'm not opposed to any of that."

"God, you really are just a horny, open-minded, very sexual human, aren't you?" I tease.

He laughs heartily. "I told you. I had a life long before I became a priest. I'm not as reserved as my chosen profession may lead you to believe."

"I've noticed that. Like a weird double life, in a way. By day, the Priest, dutiful, Fatherly. By night, a man willing to meet a woman's most lusty needs and tawdry fantasies." I note, "Too bad you had to pick one side of yourself over the other because you seem pretty amazing at both."

His laugh stops, and what was meant lightly is taken more seriously. "Thank you. Why all these questions?"

"Guess I just wanted to know now how you feel about certain things if, by some miracle, this is able to continue."

"I don't expect you to change who you are or what you want for me."

As I realize he really means that, the thought that this may end soon becomes more painful. _This is someone I think I could really have a relationship with._

"What about you?" I follow up. "Have any questions for me? Should this, again, by some miracle, be allowed to continue."

"Are you willing to accept a man who will never be able to make you a full breakfast?"

I smile. "I'll cope. In fact I'll encourage him to never even try. Anything else?"

"Eh," he vacillates over whether or not to ask. 

"What?"

"You won't like it."

"Now I have to know."

"It's not like that."

"Come on, just spit it out."

He groans his reservation, but finally says, "If I were to be a religious person who wasn't required to be celibate...could you accept that? Would you attend events with me? I don't mean Sunday services or things like that," he promptly clarifies. "I'm talking about social events. Picnics and parties, fundraisers—"

"I love a good fête!" I chime in.

"That sort of thing. I don't have any desire to convince you to convert, and I'm certainly not asking you to believe in God. But I'd like us to share our lives. Do things together."

"I could do that," I say, grateful for the darkness so he can't see the raging blush on my face at the thought of life-sharing. "If we're ever allowed to gather in groups again."

"We can buy a bubble. Share it when we go out together," he muses. 

"Any other questions for me?"

"Well, I've been largely celibate for a long time, and I really need someone willing to help me work through all that. It means a lot of long nights," he grins, "and early mornings. Probably a few mid-day breaks. We're going to have to have...a lot of sex."

"It will be a struggle. But I can be convinced to help."

And then, in spite of our insistence that we weren't horny, there's a moment when it starts to shift as we stare at each other in the relatively dim room. There's quiet. Connectedness. His hand tightens against my back as my grasp finds his hip. We both press against the touches offered by the other and breathe just a little more sharply. 

I feel his lips so close, his nose brushing mine. His knee moves further between my legs as our bodies draw near.

We both share a shaky exhale that seems perfectly timed, his hand sliding up my ribs. I inhale deeply, pressing my breast into his hand when his palm slides over it before his fingers curl behind my neck. And although there has scarcely been a minute since this shift in mood, I feel the tight, swelling twinge between my thighs, the almost immediate surge of wetness since I'm all too eager to respond to him these days. 

We move closer with the waves of our breath, his lower lip resting against my upper as my hand reaches behind his back just to nudge him forward.

This moment seethes with energy, possibility, as we wait right on the edge. His lip still against mine, he whispers, "I can't fucking stop."

I try to tell him that I know, I _understand,_ but his mouth covers mine, the kiss slow but heavy, determined, deep. The stirring of his cock against my thigh makes me wonder if it's even possible for us to resist each other anymore. We're too damn tired, and we should be slowing down by now, and really by any standard measures we have had enough sex to last months. But still there's wanting. Needing. 

That needing becomes groping, his mouth sliding over my neck with hungry, wet kisses as we both roll. I part my legs and allow him to settle between them. The weight of his body presses against my pubic bone, that pressure heightening my longing even more still. 

He lifts his face to mine for a second and shakes his head as I hold it in my hands. "What?" I ask, love dripping from my words. 

He laughs in a way that sounds like surrender. "I just can't, I can't..." he repeats, words fading. "I tried to stay away. God knows I've tried. I don't even want to try anymore."

"Then don't," I say, not so much as a request or even a suggestion. It's more of a demand. "I don't want you to stay away." 

He nods, half-muttering an, "Okay," or at least that's what I think he said. 

I lift my hips to him, impatient to continue, to meet that need that shouldn't be so amplified already, but is. I'm not sure if sex can grant us the reassurances we need, but we'll damn well try.

I love the long, steady groan that comes from him once he finally pushes into me, finding his way back in until we can go no further. 

He pauses there a moment, checking in, always listening to me and my body without having to verbally ask if I'm okay. But he _is_ listening.

I've lost track of orgasms and times we've been together by now, the pair of us making up for a year in a few short days. The time we spent apart is unimportant. The choices he'll have to make are pushed aside. In this moment, none of that even matters. Nothing matters but him and me and the way we are together. That, and this tremendous love that's so consuming it aches. 

His hands leave me, finding leverage, but I don't let go of him, holding his waist, his shoulder, pacing the rise of my pelvis to meet him each time he plunges back in. 

I would know the feeling of him even if I couldn't see or hear him.

We get deliciously rough as excitement mounts, becoming more lost and entwined in each other. I feel the brushing of his lips against my cheek, and the soft _mmms_ that come from deep within him. 

I feel that swelling tenseness grow, the inside of me tightening around him. That makes it so much more difficult for him to hold off, but that extra friction shoots right through my nerves as well, and I moan out a sound worthy of auditory porn except there's nothing fake or forced about it. I'm so close I can barely take it. 

When he hears that sound and feels the way the movement of my hips grows jerkier and more vigorous, he's so relieved I'm nearly there that he almost chuckles for a split second with relief, and then unleashes the restraint he's kept on himself. I love when he fucks like this, sort of wildly swept away.

My climax rushes over me, my sex pulsating around his in bursts so much faster than my racing heart. My fingers are digging into his sides, hanging on to this person who's bringing me these feelings in all their rampant glory. I can't help but bite his shoulder. That little nip of pain sets him off as he releases into me like it's been years since he's orgasmed. As he slows and eventually stills, my hand slides up his neck and into his hair, holding him against me.

He drops on his back when he's able, panting as he tries to catch his breath. He's not holding me. We're both too overheated to share body heat right now, but he reaches over and rests his hand on the inside of my thigh so we're not entirely without connection. 

"I feel guilty enjoying this," he comments as he laughs and sighs and tries to steady himself. 

"I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be enjoyed," I say, giving him a little look like he's lost his mind.

"Not that. I mean the quarantine. The world's falling apart around us, and I'm here with you. I feel…" the word alludes him for a minute, "happy...here."

"That's good." 

He closes his eyes a second, head resting on the pillow. Seeing the mark I left on his shoulder, the perfect imprint of teeth, I say, "Guess I know why priests wear such high collars."

When he's uncertain what I'm talking about, my fingers trace the spot, and he feels the reason. He smirks at first, but then winces a little as he says, "Not sure I can in good conscience consider myself a priest at this point."

He turns and smiles, trying to convey that he's still glad he's here, that he's not regretful. 

The heel of my hand presses over his heart, feeling the gradually slowing beat. I tell him, "You know, I don't fancy you in spite of the fact that you're holy. I enjoy both the holy and the unholy pieces of you. I enjoy...you. You shouldn't have to be one or the other. You should be allowed to be a whole person."

* * *

Sunday morning I awake alone in bed. His leave from the church is very near the end. I can hear from the other room the cadence of practiced church services. It isn't my Priest who's doing the speaking. 

Peering carefully into the sitting room, I find him with a laptop on the table, seated very calmly on the sofa. Like a strange little guinea pig choir, Hilary is providing a squeaky song of accompaniment. She's on his chest, happily singing for a moment and then taking a bit of apple that he offers, then returning to her singing when her chewing is complete. 

_She really loves him._

I reach out, resting my hand on his shoulder just to touch him. He tilts his head, and whispers, "Come here," like he's actually in the rows at the church and the minister might hear us. He pats the empty cushion beside him so I'll sit down. 

I take that spot, leaning against his shoulder as Hilary looks at me and tells me that he is undoubtedly her favorite here. I pet the white stripe down the middle of her face with the tip of my finger, and she tells me I'm not so bad either.

When the apple he's been feeding her is gone, he holds her in his arm against his chest, and she burrows her little nose down the crease of his elbow and offers a pre-nap squeak. He reaches out and casually takes my hand and holds it, resting on my thigh, like we're experienced hand holders who often sit at services like this.

Worlds collide here as a guinea pig, church, my flat, love, God, my Priest, and me all share this moment. Somewhere Boo nods approvingly, smiling knowingly at me and the softness of my heart. 

And it's not bad, not bad at all. It's kind of wonderful. I'm okay with it going on for a very long time, although I know it may not.

I think he's thinking about the expiration date on our time together, too, when the service is over. He looks at me with a wondering expression as he closes the lid to the laptop with questions in his eyes. 

Then, speaking from a place of true compassion rather than any sort of insecurity, I ask, "Would it be easier if I told you I don't want to be with you? That it won't work out and I don't lo—I don't have those feelings for you anymore?" I can't bring myself to tell him I don't love him, even theoretically.

He searches me for answers. His eyebrows raise at the center, his eyes dark, wounded. The pause is long and thoughtful. I'm not sure if the pained look on his face is because he's accepting the fact that my suggestion is the best option, or if it's because the very idea hurts him.

The arm that holds Hilary drops a little, and when she jumps nervously at the thought of falling, he holds her closer again.

My mind screams at me to take it back, but I can't let myself get any closer than we already are if this is nearing its end. If it does, if it ends here and now, I still won't regret a single moment we've shared. 

He finally swallows the lump in his throat, taking a filling breath. His head shakes 'no' involuntarily before his words emerge softly and through great effort, "Only...if that's the truth."

I nod, fighting emotions, fighting fears, fighting the protective layer that wants to thicken around my heart so I don't get hurt. 

"It would be a total fucking lie," I say with a weepy chuckle, eyes red rimmed. 

He laughs from relief, tears threatening for him as well, his hand taking a broad sweep over his face like he could wipe away the disappointment that had been on it.

Smiling widely, he shakes his head, the enamored look he offers filling me. His non-Hilary-holding hand rests on his heart, but he's silent as he decides what to say.

"Then why offer to say it?" he asks with genuine interest.

"Because…" _Because I don't want him to have to make this choice again. Because I don't want either of us to give in fully to this tremendous love only to find out at the end that his choices haven't changed. Because we'll have to prepare ourselves for the crushing feeling of separation if it's necessary._ "Because I _love_ you."

I exhale with a toneless whistle, swiftly, like I'm relieved to finally let the words out. It's the most determined and direct I've been, he knows that. I've been protective of myself. Of him. Of this. 

Gazing back with what I am certain is ridiculous amounts of affection, I nod and insist, "But I will do it if you need me to so you can get back to..." I nod toward the computer, toward the last echo of God here.

Animatedly, voice raised, he shouts, "Fuck, no! Don't tell me that for my benefit."

Hilary gazes up at him, he thinks it's from love, but I think she really wants another apple. "You know what guinea pigs do besides eat, sleep, shit themselves with fear, and die?" he asks, amused at the memory of my words.

"Trick people into hand-feeding them apples?"

"That. But there's something else."

"What?"

"They are excellent companions on mornings when one decides to attend services at different churches to see what feels right."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because I don't really have to choose between you and God, or the holy and unholy parts of myself. It doesn't have to be all or nothing. I can switch denominations, can be, as you've said, a whole person. I can be close to God, celebrate services, have a congregation, conduct weddings and funerals, and, if you'll have me, I can be with the person I truly think I should be with."

"You sure you want to do that?"

"Absolutely. B-beyond sure. I love you, too."

"Then of course I'll have you."

"In all honesty, it feels like the only right choice. Since I really committed to it, I feel that peace again, a sense of finding my life's calling. But this time, the peace feels...fuller."

"You're really going to do this?"

"I am," he answers, and with those two simple words spoken with the utmost sincerity, I believe it's true.

**_-The End-_ **


End file.
